


Final Quarters

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Football RPF, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley fucks with destiny, FIFA World Cup 2018, M/M, short and kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 12:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15194858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: “Come on angel,” Crowley says, patting the sofa seat to his left. “Get comfy. If it’s anything like that last shambles of a match we could be in here for hours.”





	Final Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to get jossed tomorrow, one way or another. 
> 
> Just a bit of fun :)

 

Their private suite at the Samara Arena offers no-holds-barred luxury, with great views of the pitch in either direction, and a bottle of Moët & Chandon on ice.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale observes, by way of greeting, looking around nervously at the plush leather seating. “But you shouldn’t have really. Ordinary seating would have sufficed.”

"Бережёного Бог бережёт,” Crowley drawls, sprawling himself wider across the corner sofa and kicking up his feet. Aziraphale starts to frown his disapproval but gets distracted when he notices the bubbly. Crowley smirks. “Come on angel,” he says, patting the sofa seat to his left. “Get comfy. If it’s anything like that last shambles of a match we could be in here for hours.”

Aziraphale settles himself primly, at a proper distance from Crowley. “They played very well last time, and you know it,” he scolds. “It was just… an unfortunate end to the ninety minutes, that’s all.”

“Hmm.” Crowley sets down his black Russian and extracts the dripping bottle of champagne from its ice bucket. The cork pops softly and he pours delicately, cheating only a little to banish the foam. “Not sure I can survive another penalty shoot-out. And you swore you’d never put yourself through one again after Germany, 2006.”

“I did no such thing,” the angels lies. He accepts the champagne flute with a smile, brushing his fingers deliberately against Crowley’s; a taste of things to come. He maintains steady eye contact, communicating mischief and the possibilities of pleasure in equal measure, and making Crowley shiver. “Cheers.”

Crowley clinks their glasses together, and then raises his tumbler towards the window, a silent toast to the England football team. “Ни пу́ха, ни пера́,” he murmurs. Let the game begin.

 

****

 

The first half is pretty much perfect from Crowley’s point of view. After two glasses of Moët, Aziraphale has closed the gap between them of his own volition.

Crowley gropes his way down the angel’s body as the game progresses, creeping shamelessly lower and meeting no resistance, only the occasional soft huff of pleasure, or possibly laughter; his angel is frightfully ticklish and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

Jesse Lingard scores in the thirty first minute and it’s the opportunity Crowley has been waiting for. He makes his move, maximising on Aziraphale’s delight and sliding his hand home across the soft fabric of the angel’s crotch. Aziraphale goes slack, except for his hips, which surge upwards to encourage the attention. Crowley rewards him by pressing gently, squeezing and kneading at the familiar bulge and drawing out a long porn-worthy moan.

He keeps it slow to begin with, rubbing and teasing with half an eye on the game, but by the end of the first half Crowley has the angel right where he wants him, without even needing to unbutton his pants. This is what Crowley loves best: his angel being so good for him; a sweaty mess, the game forgotten. So deliciously easy.

There’s a dark little damp spot developing on Aziraphale’s trousers, pleasingly obvious against the light fabric. It’s a direct result of Crowley’s new favourite pass-time, which also has the pleasant side effects of making Aziraphale mewl like a kitten while his thighs judder and twitch like crazy. All Crowley has to do is scritch lightly with his fingernail over the small area of fabric just below the wet spot. Such a big reaction for such a tiny movement. He could happily keep at it for a few hundred years.

It takes Aziraphale a while to realise when the half time whistle has sounded but once he does he’s quick to get Crowley onto his back. He straddles him and goes straight for Crowley’s zip fly, and Hell. No matter how many times they do this, Crowley’s never really prepared for this part.

“Gah,” Crowley says, stupidly, as the warm wet rush of Aziraphale’s mouth engulfs his cock.

“Hmhmm mmh hm,” Aziraphale replies, and Heaven only knows what he’s trying to say but _sweet choirs of seraphim_ , the vibrations are good.

 

****

 

Aziraphale leans against him, eyes lazily back on the football as Crowley jerks him off, torturously slowly. Whenever England get a break Crowley slows his hand, speeding up whenever Sweden win the ball and backing off altogether when play stops. It amuses him to pit Aziraphale’s desire to orgasm against his desire for England to do well; to make the angel fight against his nature.

When Sweden finally score in the eighty fourth minute, Crowley sees it coming. He builds Aziraphale up and gives him the final few tugs he needs to get over the edge, and the timing is perfect. The angel fights it but it’s more than he can take and he comes sobbing, “ _No… no… no_ -” just as Toivonen slots it neatly in to the back of the net.

Outside their tinted glass box, the Swedish striker performs a celebratory dance and the crowd goes wild around them. The perversity of it is almost enough to get Crowley off all over again. Aziraphale trembles and cries silent tears, and Crowley holds him tightly through the aftermath.

It’s not the first time the angel has let him do this kind of thing but Crowley is amazed every time, at the trust Azriaphale is capable of, and that he chooses to place his trust in Crowley, of all damned beings. He’s amazed and fiercely grateful for it.

 

****

 

Extra time is an exercise in restraint. Crowley has to keep reminding himself that he doesn’t care for either team, and that England are expected to lose at some point, even if it breaks Aziraphale’s heart, the same way it’s been breaking his heart like clockwork every four years since 1966.

Aziraphale is pliant at his side, his trademark awkwardness and stiff upper lip replaced by easy affection. Crowley wants good things for his angel; he thinks that Aziraphale deserves a break, if only for his unfailing loyalty to a country that does nothing recently other than break his heart. But the English football team fail to score during extra time, thus dooming everyone to penalties. _Again_.

He pours a refill into Aziraphale’s glass and they drink together in silent commiseration, as the players troop back to their managers in preparation for the dreaded penalty shoot-out. There are a lot of jokes that Crowley could make, and yes, Crowley _is_ a denizen of one of the innermost circles of Hell, but he’s not that cruel. He gets up and walks to the window. “They won the last one,” he offers.

At Aziraphale’s prolonged silence Crowley turns, and the practiced smile of sympathy falls from his face, to be replaced by utter shock.

Aziraphale’s body is seated on the edge of the sofa but his head is turning violently from side to side. It’s reaching a full right angle in each direction, movements fluid and gaining speed, and, as Crowley watches in horror, a glow starts to emanate from the place where Aziraphale’s face ought to be. A man-shaped lightbulb, the angel’s features become indistinguishable in a blur of yellow light.  

“Um,” Crowley says. What the Hell? Is Aziraphale having some kind of angelic fit? It’s never happened before. Genuine concern happens to Crowley. It’s something of a bi-millenial occurrence, and an uncomfortable experience to boot. He hopes the angel’s head isn’t going to explode or something nasty.

Gradually the blur settles to reveal a fixed image, or rather two fixed images; an optical trick, like the Victorian bird-in-a-cage illusion.

“My name is Janus Two Face,” say both of Aziraphale’s sideways faces in sync. The faces are looking away from each other, staring off into the distance, in opposite directions.

 _So okay_ , Crowley thinks. _This is new. But mustn’t panic._

“It is a turning point,” says the face facing to Crowley’s left, while the other face remains silent in a way that defies non-metaphysical possibility. “You are going to have to make a choice, demon.”

“Oh really.” Crowley chases the straw around his glass with his forked tongue and takes a long sip of his fifth black Russian. Since Greenpeace declared plastic straws to be instruments of the Devil he’s started asking for them at every opportunity.

“Choose my way,” says the right-facing face, “To sit this one out and let those lovely little lions go home.”

“Or choose to interfere,” says the left-facing face. “You've done it before. England will meet Russia in the semi-finals, and you and I will meet again.”

“You and I?” Crowley asks, mostly just for time to think. “There’s just one of you then, with, what? Two heads? One head spilt in two?”

“Of course, each choice has its associated political outcomes,” says Right Face, ignoring his questions. “Risking a loss to the Russian football team could turn the mood of the English people against the Kremlin.”

“But there would be a further decision to be made next time,” wheedles Left Face, “If you choose me.”

“Or, if you send them home you may never see us again,” says Right Face, and Crowley has to admit the possibility is comforting.

“Which would be a pity,” Left Face adds, its eye glancing sideways at Crowley, “For your football loving angel. Fifty years of hurt,” it muses, staring off again into the far right distance… and just like that they’re gone.

Aziraphale blinks. There’s no yellow-white glow surrounding him anymore, only the ruffled look of someone who has either been sleeping deeply, or who has just been through the emotional wringer. He doesn’t seem dizzy. He doesn’t even seem to know that anything has happened. “Oh look. The players are coming out,” he says gloomily, eyes focussed on the pitch at Crowley’s back.

 

****

 

“Who’s your favourite,” Crowley had asked Aziraphale at the start of the match.

“Pickford,” Aziraphale had replied, with no hesitation. “That young goalie. Small but plucky. Not a bad decision yet.”

Crowley scowls down at Pickford and weighs up his options. It’s not his first millennia and he knows an ancient deity when he meets one, and he also knows their limits. Probably the thing could see into the future, or into multiple futures, or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s primarily out to fuck with them, and no doubt taking pleasure in doing so.

Kane scores a belter, of course, and Rashford’s shot slides easily home. Henderson makes it too this time, relief obvious in his bearing as he walks away. The trouble is, Sweden score all their penalties too.

“If they do win,” Crowley says, as his angel’s beloved England players regroup following Lingard’s shot, in preparation for sudden death, “Any chance of a repeat performance if I can get us a private suite at the Luzhniki Stadium?”

“I think I’d enjoy that,” Aziraphale says, cheeks pinking. He doesn’t meet Crowley’s eye, still embarrassed after all these years. It’s downright adorable.

Ekdal approaches the penalty spot for Sweden, twelve yards from the angel’s pet goalie.

Crowley makes his decision.

 


End file.
